


reminds me that there's room to grow

by spacenarwhal



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, Drinking, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Depression, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-01 02:33:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5188847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacenarwhal/pseuds/spacenarwhal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are felt antlers on his head and tinsel draped around his neck and Matt is really too full of red wine and good food to care that his co-workers have taken it upon themselves to deck him out like a Christmas tree. </p><p>(Five winters Matt and Foggy spend together.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	reminds me that there's room to grow

1.

 

 

The futon in the Nelson’s living room isn’t uncomfortable. Not really. The flannel sheets are warm and the fleece blanket soft, the mattress under Matt’s back no worse than the one supplied by university housing. The bedding smells faintly like artificial lavender, like the dryer sheets Foggy used to use at the beginning of the school year but never replaced once they ran out. The scent is faint now, days old, faded enough to keep from being irritating.

It’s late. Everything is quiet here in a way it never is in the city, or as quiet as the world ever is for Matt. He can hear the rhythmic breathing of Foggy’s family in their respective rooms: his sisters, his parents, his grandmother in Foggy’s old bedroom. A full house already, though in a few days there will be more, if this year is anything like the last. Christmas Eve will be full of people coming and going, accompanying Foggy to the supermarket for last minute ingredients, asking Ruth about college and Carol about her students. He’ll offer Mrs. Nelson help a dozen times and be deflected every time, listen to Foggy’s father and aunts argue about baseball. There will more food than anyone could hope to eat in a week let alone a single dinner, conversations upon conversations, and Matt will take it all in as best he can. It had been somewhat overwhelming last year, at least at first, sitting off to the side while every single Nelson in the Tri-State Area had congregated around him. Foggy had introduced him to everyone, and if any of them had made the connection between Matt and a front-page story from years ago, no one mentioned it. “And in an unexpected turn of events: Everyone loves you. What a game changer.” Foggy had teased at the end of the night when they’d turned in, and Matt, full of good food and still laughing over a terrible pun Foggy’s great-uncle had told him, had smiled.

Sharing things with Foggy, the normal everyday things Matt enjoys best, feels second natured most days, a habit Matt hasn’t tried to wean himself of since those first initial weeks of their cohabitation. Foggy is personable by nature, affectionate and easygoing, funny and caring, brutally honest and smart. Everything Matt knows about Foggy does nothing to explain why Foggy is currently lying stiff as a board less than a foot away. Matt’s been listening to the uneven percussion of Foggy’s heart for the last twenty minutes, how it slows until one of them moves and the futon squeaks and it ratchets back up again.

A car alarm starts blaring nearby and Foggy flinches. _Squeak._

“Sorry.” Foggy apologizes for what must be the hundredth time tonight. Matt isn’t sure if he’s apologizing for moving or for their unexpected sleeping arrangements. His voice is a low-pitched whisper to Matt’s right. Matt takes advantage of the broken silence and rolls on his side. The futon’s frame groans beneath them. Mrs. Nelson promised it would hold, almost as apologetic as Foggy had been when she’d let them know Foggy’s bedroom was being occupied by Foggy’s grandmother. Matt’s sure they won’t wake up on the floor, but that doesn’t stop him from teasing, “I expect you to break my fall when this thing gives.”

Foggy groans under his breath, “Oh God I can see it now. ‘Two dead in tragic futon collapse, more at eleven.’” Matt feels him push up onto his elbows, cold air seeping in through the gaps he creates in the blankets. “I swear this thing is way more comfortable as _a couch_. We can just—”

“Foggy.” Matt cuts him off before he can offer Matt the couch again, “This is fine. Really.” Matt bends his knees a little, tries to get comfortable without jostling too much. “You’re letting the cold in.”

Foggy sighs, unconvinced, but complies nonetheless. He holds still for another breathe and then apparently decides to give up the ghost and wiggles around, rolls over onto his stomach, one leg kicking closer to Matt.

“Better not try to get fresh with me Murdock. I’m not that kind of guy.” Foggy’s voice is partially muffled by his pillow. Matt smooths out his grin, tries to keep it out of his voice when he answers, “Of course not. I know you need dinner first.”

“Damn right. I’m holding out for a gentleman. Preferably one who’s loaded and capable of keeping me in a style of living I can get accustomed to.”

Matt sighs. “Well that takes me out of the running.”

Foggy _hmms_ into his pillow. “Sorry buddy, but without dough your prospects are totally shot. I mean if only you weren’t such a troll too…”

“Yeah, I don’t know how you put up with the sight of me.”

Foggy burrows further into the mattress, muscles relaxing in increments despite the creaking, “I don’t either Matty, looking at you is such a hardship.” The shift in Foggy’s heartbeat is so miniscule now, a barely there uptick, almost lost under the rumble of Foggy’s drowsy chuckle. “Don’t worry Matt, your inner beauty shines through.”

Matt lets himself listen to the slowing meter of Foggy’s heart, soothing as a metronome, so much closer now than it ever is back in their room on campus. Sleep creeps over him, gentler than the post-final crash had hit him just days before. It makes for a nice change of pace.

“Next year,” Foggy starts, syllables softening with encroaching sleep, “We’re calling dibs on Carol’s old room. She and Ruth can share this death trap.”

“Hmm.” Matt hums at the back of his throat. It still takes him aback, how easily Foggy can plan for the future, how he includes Matt without a second’s hesitation. Matt wasn’t completely alone after Stick left. The nuns were kind, did their best with a child they couldn’t make sense of. But the other children gave him wide berth, and he’d never seen the point of putting in the effort to change that. Self-imposed isolation served him through high school, was supposed to see him through everything that came after too.

He hadn’t planned on Foggy.

Foggy hadn’t snuck his way into Matt’s life so much as bulldozed his way into it, offered his friendship so readily and unconditionally and left Matt without any choice but to accept it.

“Go to sleep Foggy.” Matt says, an echo of countless nights when Foggy’s lectured Matt on the necessity of sleep. Foggy knocks his socked foot against Matt’s ankle. “You better not hog the blankets either.” Foggy warns, a final yawn stretching out the last syllable.

"Never."

(In the morning, when he wakes up wrapped in layers of lavender-scented fleece and Foggy’s disgruntled tugging, he cackles. “Consider it payback for the snoring.”)

 

 

2.

 

 

 

His head aches, his muscles sore despite his lack of physical exertion for the last 48 hours. His mouth is dry but it hurts to swallow, his nose a useless appendage at the center of his face, rubbed raw by countless tissues. Blowing it just makes the throbbing pressure in his sinuses worse but it feels like the only thing he’s capable of doing so he scrunches his face against the abrasive touch of tissue and blows his nose again. It doesn’t help.

He’s been sick before, but it never feels any better, his senses thrown off by congestion and fever. He can’t draw breath in through his nose and the air tastes dull on his tongue, the sounds of the city at war with the unrelenting pounding of his pulse in his left ear. It’s like sinking into a deeper darkness, and for all that he struggles to get his bearings, to shore his focus up against the debilitating disorientation—the appalling weakness of it all—he can’t quite manage. He rolls onto his back, tries to open his airway, but the sheets tangle around him, suffocating, and Matt paws at them until he’s free, panicked half-gasps aching in his throat.

Sweat cools on his overheated skin and Matt shivers, swallows against a nauseating lump lodged at the back of his throat. Loneliness wells up inside him, sudden and fierce, and Matt curls onto his side, away from the wall, pulls his pillow over his head like he would when he was a child trying to drown out a too loud world. It works about as well now as it ever did then. He breathes through his mouth, palm pressing the pillow down hard over his ear—but he can still hear it, the warped sounds of the apartment, the building, the city laid over his racing heart— and wishes his dad was here, misses him with a dizzying longing that leaves him feeling empty.

He needs to get up. Needs to pull himself together again. There’s work to do. There is always so much work to do.

Foggy had insisted he’d stay home today, had made Matt promise he wouldn’t go to class. “You look like death warmed over man. Just stay home, rest, listen to shitty daytime TV. I mean unless you wanna engage in germ warfare and take out half of your crim law class.”

But Foggy isn’t here now, no one is here, it’s just Matt, feeling sorry for himself when he should be doing everything else he has to do.

Stick taught him how to rein in his senses, how to turn an overwhelming world into a different way of seeing, of surviving. The mind controls the body, he’d said whenever Matt grew tired, when his knuckles hurt and his legs shook and his chest pinched. It’s a lesson Matt relies on, what keeps him awake on the nights when even the strongest coffee fails him, what keeps him from flinching on subway platforms or gagging on the putrid smell of garbage left on the curbs in August. It is what Matt tells himself on the bleakest mornings, when he doesn’t want to move, when he feels brittle and thin, a pane of glass shot through with a hundred miniscule cracks, ready to give at its epicenter. And for all the bullshit Stick fed him this at least must be true because most days Matt can pick himself up and go.

Today isn’t going to be one of those days though and his squeezes his stinging eyes shut and wills himself to sleep.

He dozes fitfully, comes in and out of dreams that feel more like nightmares and wakes with his heart racing, the memory of falling lingering in his limbs. His pillow’s been dislodged and his sheets kicked free of the mattress but his blanket’s been replaced, heavy along Matt’s body. There’s a thin wheezing sound when he tries to breathe and his head still hurts enough that it takes him a minute to place what he’s hearing.

Humming. The crinkle of plastic bags. The floorboards creek a little in steady repetition, back and forth, and Matt can’t smell the familiar scent of deodorant and shampoo but he can recognize the timber of Foggy’s voice, the cadence of his heart.

Everything still hurts but Matt pushes through it, stumbles out of his bed and rounds the flimsy partition that divides Matt’s bed from the rest of the apartment. Foggy stops humming when he sees Matt. He sets something down on the counter top, its inner contents sloshing slightly. “He lives.” He crows cheerfully, though somewhat quieter than his usual volume, and Matt grips the back of the sofa just as his legs decide they don’t much care for walking.

He blinks and realizes a moment too late that he’s not wearing his glasses. Foggy’s seen him go without them a hundred times by now but right now Matt could use whatever small protection they offer him from the rest of the world. He tries to breathe through his nose again but there’s only the stifling pressure of congestion, a pathetic wheeze he tries to smother in his sleeve. He hears Foggy approach, feels the gentle tap of his fingertips against the back of Matt hand as he says, “Hey got you these.” He presses a plastic packet into Matt’s palm, it gives significantly when Matt curls his fingers into a fist around it. Tissues. “They’re the lotioned kind. Your Rudolph impression was getting kind of intense.” Matt mumbles a thanks. He fold himself ono the solitary couch that currently acts as their living room and study area and dining room, holds himself still until his head feels less like it’s going to roll off his shoulders. The couch sags under his weight, the fabric scratchy, but he sinks into it regardless, listless and drained from relocating. He yanks one of the tissues free from the plastic, rubs it between his fingertips. It is soft.

Foggy walks back over to their minuscule kitchenette, starts up a symphony of plastic bags and chatter. “So I stopped by the store and got you some orange juice and that gross grass tea you like and a yellow Gatorade, because I don’t know, my mom always gave me yellow Gatorade when I was sick, and I don’t know if it actually does anything for you but whatever your electrolytes probably need replenishing. And I was trying to find you some chicken soup but all I could find was vegetable and matzo so I got both and you can pick whatever you want. And because I am the best I got you some drugs. Daytime and nighttime…which we will work out a way to tell apart.”

Foggy rolls through his speech without pause, voice sunny, and there’s a threatening second where Matt doesn’t know what to do with it, at a loss for words in the wake of its onslaught. He presses his chapped lips together, rolls his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” Matt manages, tongue thick behind his teeth, but Foggy doesn’t even pause whatever he’s doing in the kitchen. Matt’s given up trying to keep track of what Foggy’s doing, since the sounds and movements all blur together, meld into an indistinguishable mess alongside everything else Matt can’t keep straight. His head hurts worse for trying. “Meh.” A rustle. “I’ve shrugged. Very nonchalantly I might add.” Foggy yanks open a drawer, the one to the left of the sink that always stick a little on the right side. “I swapped shifts with Yamely. I was going to be up early for that study group anyway, if I open Saturday there’s no way I’ll oversleep. It’s a foolproof plan.”

Everything hurts but Matt needs to keep himself composed now that Foggy’s here. He rubs his eyes and tries to keep down the self-deprecation that rises like a balloon. Unchecked it’ll swell in his stomach, wider and wider until there’s no room for anything else, but he can’t allow it right now. The mind controls the body.

“So what’s your poison Murdock: matzo or vegetable medley?”

He isn’t hungry but he hasn’t had anything since the piece of toast Foggy forced on him this morning.

Matt sips matzo ball soup from the plastic container Foggy places in his hands, lets the warmth of it sink into his palms, feels it slide down his throat and settle in his belly, mindful of Foggy’s attention him the entire time. Foggy eats his own dinner at the other end of the couch, talks about everything under the sun. Nothing that requires Matt’s immediate attention though, and it’s easy to let the conversation flow around him.

When he’s done Foggy takes the container from Matt, drops his palm to the top of Matt’s head as he passes on the way to the kitchen. It’s a fleeting touch, but it is enough to make his chest hurt, fills him with gratitude.

“Thanks Foggy.”

“No problem buddy. Figure it’s in my best interest to get you healthy before you can contaminate me with your plague.” Foggy’s voice is light, quick-feinting as a punch pulled. “Besides you’d do the same for me.”

Matt sinks further into the couch, gives into his exhaustion, the dull ache in his body. The world around him is dimmer than ever, but Foggy’s heart is a reassurance, beating steady for Matt to hear. _Here, here, here._

“Yeah.” Matt sighs, letting his tired eyes slip shut again, full of soup and warmth and a different kind of longing, something dangerous, so strong he has to swallow against it. He listens to Foggy move around the kitchen. “Yeah.”

 

 

3.

 

 

There are felt antlers on his head and tinsel draped around his neck and Matt is really too full of red wine and good food to care that his co-workers have taken it upon themselves to deck him out like a Christmas tree.

Karen is laughing at something Foggy’s saying, the sound bubbling over and spreading across the room, reaching Matt where he’s leaning against the doorway that divides Foggy’s living room from his kitchen. It’s a sound that’s been sorely missed in the last year and Matt will gladly wear whatever Foggy and Karen have in store for him if it means they’re happy.

“A toast!” Foggy calls from across the room and Karen groans, though it’s seeded through with gasping giggles. There’s the heavy tread of Foggy’s feet on the floorboards, ambling towards the small table covered with the remnants of their dinner, followed by Karen’s stockinged feet and the distinct sound of drinks being poured.

“What are we toasting?” Matt asks, accepting the glass Karen offers him (more wine from the scent of it). Karen nudges him playfully with her elbow until he raises his glass. “We, my friends,” Foggy starts grandiosely, “Are toasting us and the first annual Nelson and Murdock nondenominational winter season office party.”

Karen laughs again. “I don’t think Santa counts as nondenominational Foggy.”

Matt chuckles, lowering his arm again, listening to the cheerful chime of the bell attached to the Santa hat Karen’s been wearing all night. Foggy huffs a sigh, “I’m pretty sure Coke owns him Karen. Geez it’s like you’re trying to get me in hot water with HR.”

“Yeah. That Mr Nelson is real ball buster.”

Foggy’s hair brushes the back of his shirt, Matt thinks he’s tipped his head back laughing. “Oh sweet I’m HR. I can feel myself going mad with power already.”

Matt sips at his drink, leans a little more firmly against the doorway and let’s himself enjoy Karen and Foggy’s banter flicking back and forth. “Hey we didn’t toast yet buddy! Alright team bring it in, time to clink!” Foggy comes over and Matt smiles happily. Karen to his right and Foggy on his left, he lifts his glass and lets them clink their own drinks against it, savors the vibrations that ripple across the surface of the wine.

“To us.” Foggy says, “Nelson, Murdock, and Page.” Karen bounces, taps her glass against both of theirs a second time. “I like the sound of that.”

Matt nods, jostling the ridiculous felt antlers on his head, “It’s a good team.”

There’s been simultaneously too much and yet still not enough wine for any of them to get too saccharine, and for now Matt is content to enjoy the moment as it is: happy and bright and untarnished.

“Oh!” Foggy says, vowel soft as butter, startling into motion and brushing past Matt into the kitchen. It’s the closest he’s come in weeks and Matt’s stomach jumps, his grip tightening on his glass to keep from reaching after him. (“Call me crazy,” Foggy had said weeks ago, sitting on Matt’s couch with a beer in his hand, “But this honestly feels like a date.” And Matt, who had spent the last month worrying over the significance of gestures and the necessity for subtlety, had burned red and answered, “Would it be okay if it was?” He hadn’t expected Foggy to fall into his arms but he can’t deny the disappointment that lanced his chest when Foggy hadn’t said anything at all. Matt can still remember the racing rhythm of Foggy’s heart when he’d said good night.) “I’ve got one more surprise up my sleeve.”

“You’re a regular St. Nick. Really Foggy this was too much already.” Karen calls after him, her smile carried in her voice. And it’s more than enough to pull Matt back from the edge of melancholy, because whatever he and Foggy have to figure out they’ll do it without dragging Karen into the middle of it, not again. She deserves better from both of them.

“Pfft. This is nothing. My mother would be mortified at my lackluster hosting.” Foggy comes back holding a box that smells of molasses and brown sugar and clove and, “Gingerbread?” Matt asks though it isn’t really a question.

“Okay super sniffer, way to ruin the suspense.” Foggy chides good-naturedly, setting the box down on the counter, “But even you can’t guess what makes these so awesome.” He opens the box with a flourish and Matt feels Karen brush against him as she leans forward to see what’s in the box. “Oh my god Foggy where did you find these?” Karen squeaks, even as Foggy picks a cookie out of the box and holds it out for Matt to take.

The gingerbread is heavy in his palm, maybe a little overdone, one side flat and the other smoothed over with icing. It feels like a standard gingerbread cookie. Foggy’s anticipation is practically a palpable thing so Matt puts him out of his misery and asks, “What is it?”

“It’s you man!”

“It is, Matt! It’s a little Daredevil gingerbread man. It even has the horns!” Karen flicks at the left antler, and there’s a pause followed by a slightly inarticulate, “And you taste delicious.”

Matt chuckles, “Well that I’m definitely going to have to report that to human resources Ms Page.” Foggy snorts, and everywhere is the smell of ginger and cinnamon and Matt eats his cookie because he can’t think of a single reason not to enjoy this with them. (“I need to think.” Foggy had said, walking into Matt’s office after two days of pointedly not talking about it, “I just—I need time.” Matt had sat tight-jawed and tense at his desk, recording still playing in one ear and said, “Take all the time you need.” Patience has never been a virtue at which Matt excels but he’s willing to try if it’s what Foggy needs.)

They stay hours longer still, the winter night wearing itself away outside the tightly latched windows of Foggy’s apartment. When it’s finally time to go, Karen is half drowsing, shoes in hand, each of them loaded with leftovers. Foggy walks them to the door (“Gotta make my mother proud.”) and Karen thanks him again. Matt listens to the quick brush of skin against skin, the rustle of clothing as Foggy and Karen hug, as Foggy kisses Karen’s cheek.

“Merry Christmas, Matty.” Foggy says when he turns to him and Matt reaches out, throws caution to the wind and pulls Foggy in to a hug, warm and soft and familiar against him. Foggy stills, hesitation pulling him tense for a single second before he moves again. Not away, but closer, he leans in and Matt concentrates on breathing, in and out, the even cadence of air entering and leaving his lungs (everything smells of gingerbread and red wine and the candy cane Foggy had been chewing on less than an hour ago). Foggy’s heart is easy in his ears, the gentle timber of it a contrast to the quickening rhythm of Matt’s pulse, spiking inexplicably beneath his skin.

Foggy’s lips are chapped and slightly sticky with left over sugar, the pressure of them lingers for a half-second longer than they did on Karen. It isn’t a first kiss but it is nothing like the dozens of drunken midnight kisses Foggy’s smacked on Matt’s face to greet a new year, sloppy with laughter and cheap champagne and the unfamiliarity of it makes Matt’s breath catch in his throat. He tips his face to the side, just a fraction, just enough to graze Foggy’s cheek with the corner of his mouth as he pulls back.

And there it is, like a lock tumbling into place, Foggy’s heartbeat pumps a half-beat quicker, a single reassurance Matt hadn’t known he needed until now.

“Merry Christmas Foggy.” He answers, as Foggy takes a step back. Silence reigns a second too long to be natural, and Matt wonders what kind of look Karen is giving them, her heartbeat fluttering in her chest.

They share a cab and she hums _All I Want for Christmas Is You_ the entire ride to her apartment.

 

 

 

4.

 

 

He swipes his tongue over his teeth and spits out onto the rooftop, hopes it does away with the worst of the blood even if it doesn’t do much to dispel the metallic taste in his mouth or the coopery smell of it in his nose. There is a part of him, the still sane, logical part of Matt that walks him through closing statements and the rigmarole of the legal system, which knows he should just go home. He has no business here tonight, the long night’s frost already turning into the early morning’s cold front and a hearing in less than six hours. He should go home.

Matt doesn’t go home.

He makes sure to spit before he descends along the fire escape, careful not to jostle his lip too much, which is hot to the touch and already beginning to swell from the impact of the blow. He held a fistful of snow to it for a bit once he’d settled on the rooftop, but he already knows it’ll be terrible tomorrow morning. Karen is going to kill him when he shows up at the office (“There are limits to what I can do with concealer Matt, I need you to understand that.”).

That is if Foggy doesn’t kill him first.

“What the fuck Murdock?” Foggy asks when he lets Matt in through his kitchen window, but there’s no upward inflection, the final _k_ of his name snaps hard against the roof of Foggy’s mouth. The air tastes like menthol and sweat, Foggy’s breathing still clogged by the lingering congestion in his nose. “Did you fight a zombie? You look like someone tried to gnaw on your face.” Well so much for it looking better than it feels.

“How do you feel?” Matt deflects even as Foggy tries to press a dish towel up against his mouth. The pressure hurts even after the numbing done by the snow. He tries to point out that he’s hardly bleeding anymore, but Foggy just shushes him, heart tripping out of the steady rhythm Matt followed from the roof.

“Is your nose broken?” Foggy asks, voice edging on horrified, worry and anger radiating from him like the heat that comes off his skin. “Do you need Claire?” Foggy pulls the dish towel back, leans in closer to inspect Matt’s face, fingers warm on the underside of Matt’s chin to tilt his face upwards into better light.

“No.” Matt turns his face away from Foggy’s probing fingers, but they follow after, “I’m fine honestly.”

But Foggy’s still going, heart accelerating with every word, “Romantic as your Romeo impression is Matt, I’m gonna be the first one to tell you that I am not a trained medical professional. At best I’ve got half a box of band aids featuring Thor, so if your face is gonna fall off we should really call Claire. I cannot be responsible for your face falling off.”

All this time and Foggy still worries when Matt looks like he’s spent his nights out getting into trouble. Matt reaches up and grabs his worrying hand, wraps his fingers around Foggy’s and squeezes tight. He grins against all better judgement, through the pain that intersects it when he pulls at his sore lip. Matt pokes the tip of his tongue at the inside of his lip to try and ascertain the damage. It really doesn’t feel that bad.

“Stop that.” Foggy swats at him with the dish towel. “You’re gonna make it bleed more.”

Matt teases reflexively, “What do you know? You’re not even a medical professional.”

Whatever Foggy’s going to say is cut short by a coughing fit that send him a few steps back, pulling his hand out of Matt’s. “Huh,” he huffs once it’s passed, “This feels wildly unsanitary.”

Matt shrugs, “I’ve had worse.”

Foggy tuts, “That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.”

Matt steps forward again, apprehension lining his shoulders.

Foggy sighs. “C’mon let’s get you cleaned up.”

He follows dutifully, because it is too late now to go back out the window, feels caught somewhere between scolded schoolboy and eager dog. Embarrassment burns across his face and either Foggy doesn’t notice or refrains from commenting on it when he sits Matt down on the lip of his tub.

He should have gone home. He’s too old for this type of stunt, well pass the point where he can excuse giving into the shameless want that brought him here tonight. Its unfamiliar terrain, the safety net of his carefully cultivated control removed and Matt only has himself to blame for the free fall. But the allure has yet to wear off, and for all that Foggy’s movements are quick and a bit too forceful as he digs through his medicine cabinet, there’s a part of Matt that revels in this, in allowing himself what he wants.

Foggy sits on the closed lid of the toilet less than an arm’s breadth from Matt, their knees knock together when he turns to face Matt fully. “I’m drawing the line at stitching you back together, you hear me Murdock? Just because Karen and I took a crash course in triage does not mean I am ever sewing you up. I don’t care how much whiskey you give me.” It’s the edge to Foggy’s voice more than his heartbeat that tells Matt how serious he is, but Foggy’s hands are still careful as they wipe at the worst of the blood, gentle around his mouth and chin.

“Karen’s gonna kick your ass tomorrow buddy.” Foggy mumbles under his breath, tipping Matt’s face upward. “Think you can take the mask off or is it the only thing keeping your nose in place.”

“Ha, ha.”

It hurts to pry the mask free, his fingers stiff with cold despite the thickness of the gloves. Foggy touches his nose cautiously, but Matt already knows it isn’t broken, though that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“So, you gonna tell me what happened?” Foggy asks while Matt works his gloves off, cold seeping inward, sweat cooling on his head. Matt rests the gloves besides the mask, “You’re not gonna believe me.” He says, thinks of lying on his back with only darkness above him and wanting to laugh despite the lack of air in his lungs.

Foggy sits back, hands on his own knees. “Try me Murdock.”

Matt braces his hands against the bathtub, lets his eyes fall close for the inevitable fall out. “I fell.”

Foggy makes a disbelieving noise, choked and sharp, “Wow you haven’t tried that line in a dog’s age.”

Matt grimaces, hates the brittle quality to Foggy’s voice, the lingering distrust that seems to rear its head every time Matt starts to believe he’s done enough to earn Foggy’s forgiveness.

“No I mean it. I fell. There was ice on the ledge of a warehouse west of eleventh. Didn’t quite stick my landing.” He lift his face towards Foggy’s with what he hopes is an earnest enough expression to convey honesty. Matt’s a skilled fighter but he’s not superhuman. He’s more than capable of falling without anyone to push him. “Do you remember that time I slipped on the steps of the library? It was that all over again.”

Foggy’s breathing changes. “You fell off a roof.”

“On to one is more accurate.” Matt tries for charming, but the lilt of Foggy’s heart tells him he’s missed the mark.

Foggy sniffs. His fingers squeeze at his own knees. “You could have—Shit. Did you—are you—I mean you’re obviously here but are you—”

Matt does his best not to sigh. “I’m fine. Really. Think my pride got the worst of it.”

“Pretty sure your face would disagree, man.”

Matt leans forward, covers one of Foggy’s hands with his own and Foggy lets him. “I’m alright. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t. I wouldn’t—“ He swallows, looking for the words, “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Foggy wasn’t just being modest when he said Claire was better equipped to handle medical emergencies. But this wasn’t a medical emergency; Matt knew that before he even set out for Foggy’s building. He doesn’t know how to explain, how to justify missing Foggy when he’s only been out of work for two days, how it had felt to fall and know where it was he would rather be.

Foggy’s hand slips out from under his and something in Matt’s gut aches. Foggy stands and it jars Matt worse than the fall. “Sit tight. I’m going to root around my freezer and see what I have that we can put on your nose.” Matt listens to the retreating tread of Foggy’s feet, the shift of frozen goods.

He shouldn't have come here. This is too new still, this change between them. No matter how long it might have felt in coming, every variable is an unknown. Maybe they weren’t ready for this, for Matt at Foggy’s window in the middle of the night, blood still rushing with adrenaline and body beginning to ache from the fight. It doesn’t matter that Foggy decided to take a chance on Matt and all his fractured pieces, none of it gives Matt the right to show up uninvited, a living reminder of all the reasons Foggy would be better off without him. He should have gone home.

“You okay?” Foggy asks, already offering Matt a bag wrapped in a kitchen towel. The bag is filled with small pieces, maybe peas or corn, Matt can’t be sure. He holds it to his nose regardless.

“Yeah. I—sorry for dropping in like this. I shouldn’t—”

“It’s okay.” Foggy says, but it isn’t, his heart quick and nervous in his chest. “I mean, it isn’t okay that you could have fallen to your death off _a warehouse_. I mean, Christ Matt, that’s—I don’t even know what that is but it isn’t alright.”

“Foggy,” Matt starts, apologetic and quiet but Foggy’s hands are moving, keeping the hand holding the frozen bag in place. “No I mean it’s okay that you’re here. I like knowing you’re alive.” The sentiment isn’t new but Matt can’t decipher the tempo of Foggy’s heart in combination with his palm resting over Matt’s hand, warm and steady.

Moving forward is a matter of discovery, feeling your way through the unfamiliar with every step. Then again, Matt remembers, this isn’t a journey he’s taking alone.

“Maybe incorporate some snow shoes into your look. I’m sure we can even find you some red ones.” Foggy continues, touching Matt’s forehead, sweeping his hair to the side. “Karen is going to kill you though. Just so you’re aware.”

Matt’s laugh is muffled by the towel. Foggy drops a kiss to the top of Matt’s head, and this certainly isn’t the reason why Matt came here, but he doesn’t know how else to explain to himself why, when he rolled on his back up on the rooftop trying to catch his breath with blood seeping out of his nose and filling his mouth, he’d thought _Foggy_. He doesn’t know the name for the feeling that lodges itself in his chest, something sharp and white-hot as a blow, knotted tight over his flickering heart.

“That had occurred to me.” Matt manages.

“Just making sure.” Foggy mumbles against Matt’s hair before he straightens, takes a half-step back.

“You should get some sleep, the morning’s gonna be rough enough as it is.”

Matt nods, sets down his makeshift icepack and reaches for his mask again. “Yeah no, new house rule: No masks in the bedroom.” Matt blinks uselessly for lack of anything else to do in response to that. “Huh?”

“Matt if I sent you packing now I’d be the world’s worst boyfriend.” Foggy’s voice is easy but his pulse flicks too quickly for Matt to believe it. It’s shaping up to be a night of firsts. “Also, just decided I’m definitely too old to be anyone’s boyfriend.”

Matt sets his mask down again, stands and reaches for Foggy, finds his hand waiting. “We can stick to partner.”

Foggy tugs on his arm and leads the way to bed.

 

5.

 

The wind whips against the windows, warns of more snow before morning. There’s noise everywhere (cheering and laughing and singing, car horns blaring and glasses shattering. Sirens howl in the distance, grow fainter as they move farther away), but for tonight Matt lets it slip over him, the last of the night’s champagne softening the edges of everything enough for him to roll on his back, limbs loose and easy.

“You’re drunk.” Foggy giggles from the foot of the bed, and Matt tries to deny it, shakes it head, but his mouth twists around a smile, “Little bit, yeah.”

“You’re getting old Murdock.” Foggy groans as he throws himself down, head landing somewhere near Matt’s hip, the soles of his shoes still dragging over the floor where his legs hang over the foot of the bed. “Where’s the spry young man who could drink until 3am and still go to class the next morning?” The bed shakes under Matt and there’s a dizzying second where his head seems to spin independent of the rest of his body.

“He traded drinking for crime fighting.” Matt says solemnly, and Foggy snorts turns his face into Matt’s hip. “Poor choices: You make them buddy.”

Matt doesn’t disagree, though nothing feels too bad now that the room’s stopped moving. He hasn’t had a night off in a while, and it’s nice to lie there with Foggy, after the noise and mayhem of the streets outside.

Still Matt’s never been one to leave well enough alone.

“You’re old too.” Matt points out, somewhat petulantly, earns a soft head butt to his hip.

“Yes and every one of the grey hairs on my head is entirely your doing.”

Matt reaches out and strokes Foggy’s hair. It feels nice, cool and smooth under his fingers. Foggy goes quiet, makes a soft pleased noise when Matt scratches his nails against his scalp.

“You don’t have grey hair.”

Foggy scoffs, “How would you know? Can you like taste color now? Are you eating my hair at night? I knew I had more split ends since I moved here.” Foggy laughs at his own joke, not entirely sober himself, and Matt smiles up at the ceiling. Karen was right to insist they celebrate properly.

Matt laughs, lets the sound expand in his chest until it’s so big he has to let it go. Foggy shushes him half-heartedly, one hand closing over Matt’s knee. “You’re going to wake the neighbors.” But the smile in his voice is so clear that Matt can feel it, warm over his skin.

How can anyone sleep on a night like tonight Matt wonders, the sky full of clamor and the streets teeming with people, noise so thick in the air outside he could have touched it if his hand hadn’t been safely ensconced in the crook of Foggy’s elbow. (“That’s it Murdock I’m attaching your gloves with Velcro from now on. I don’t care how cool you think you are, even you can’t pull off frostbite.”) He tells Foggy as much, and Foggy finally kicks off his shoes and crawls the rest of the way up the bed.

“You’re such a poetic drunk.” He sighs, stretching out next to Matt. They’ll have to get up in a bit unless they plan to sleep fully dressed. But the bed is comfortable under his back and Foggy is warm to his side. They can wait a little longer.

Matt gropes to the side, closes his hand around Foggy’s forearm. Foggy makes an inquisitive noise. “We’re both getting old.” Matt says, a kind of olive branch, and there’s a beat, Foggy turning his response over in his head before he answers.

“Matty you asking me to grow old with you?” His voice is still playful, but there’s something to the resonating timber of Foggy’s heart inside his veins, something that stills the air in Matt’s lungs.

“We’re already doing that.” He says, unsure of the emotion roiling in his chest, turbulent and fierce. Whatever storm front plays out on his face is enough to garner Foggy’s concern, his hand lands heavy and broad on Matt’s chest, his fingers splayed wide like the rays of a far-reaching sun.

“Yeah.” Foggy breathes, so soft Matt almost doesn’t hear it over the pounding of his heart in his own ears. “Guess we are.”

And they are. In a way it’s all they’ve been doing since they met, growing older, growing up. They’ve both changed, in infinite and undefinable ways as much as they have in the obvious ones. They aren’t the people they were when they first met or even the people they thought they would be when they were younger and still thought of the future as a series of accomplishments on a checklist to be crossed off.

“Yeah.” Matt says because he can feel the truth of it, in the life they share every day, the things they’ve built together and apart, the pieces of themselves they entrust to one another for safe keeping even after they’ve proven faulty guardsmen. Foggy’s hand slips up his chest, lifts to cradle Matt’s jaw, tip his head fully towards Foggy.

“I wanna—” Foggy starts, swallows hard, and Matt wishes he’d drank less, wishes his head were clearer, that he could focus on Foggy the way he deserves, with every atom of Matt’s being paying attention. “Let’s just keep doing this okay?” Foggy says finally, the words uneven in the air, unraveling at their edges despite the earlier levity of Foggy’s voice. And Matt doesn’t have to ask for clarity, doesn’t tease Foggy about whether he means he wants to lie in bed touching Matt’s face for what’s left of the night.

When they were younger, when their friendship was still taking shape, Matt used to wonder what it would take for Foggy to leave him. When they were older, after Matt had found his answer and more, he’d learned there were a hundred reasons for Foggy leave but that Matt was reason enough for Foggy to come back.

He raises his hands to Foggy’s face, feels the familiar roundness of his cheeks, the recognizable dip of a dimple under his thumb that signifies a smile. “For as long as we both shall live.” Matt manages around a laugh, the sound of it strangled (it is better than the alternative, better than _until death do us part_ , and no less true. Matt will spend the rest of his life loving Foggy, however long that might be). Foggy’s smile widens under his palms.

Foggy leans forward and kisses Matt, slow and sure.

“Yeah, that sounds about right.”

 

-

 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> This story definitely took on a life of it's own and became an excuse to write Sick!Matt, various characters in states of intoxication, and the phrase nondenominational winter season office party. 
> 
> Timeline:  
> 1\. During law school  
> 2\. During law school  
> 3\. Year after S1 of DD  
> 4\. Some weeks after #3  
> 5\. Years after #4
> 
> The title is, believe it or not, from Drops of Jupiter by Train.


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